


One Eye Closed, Another One Opened

by xazliin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ...or is it?, Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14727915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xazliin/pseuds/xazliin
Summary: When Lance opens his eyes, he's holding a fishing rod.The handle is a dark wood, something solid that feels good in his hand. Keith’s chest presses up against Lance’s back. Heat soaks through Lance’s undershirt as Keith’s fingers clasp over Lance’s.A sticky warm breeze, full of wind and saltwater, shifts across Lance’s face.





	One Eye Closed, Another One Opened

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful, amazing [Sie](https://www.deviantart.com/cal1c0), who has helped me through many a metaphorical writing dead-end and creative wrong-turn, has made some wonderful, amazing art [(here)](https://www.deviantart.com/cal1c0/art/One-Eye-Closed-Another-One-Open-752706243) to go with this ♥

**_Port Bagby, Newfoundland, 1853_ **

  
  


When Lance opens his eyes, he’s holding a fishing rod.

The handle is a dark wood, something solid that feels good in his hand. Keith’s chest presses up against Lance’s back. Heat soaks through Lance’s undershirt as Keith’s fingers clasp over Lance’s. They forwent the over shirts and jackets; they’re only fishing after all.

“Hold it steadier,” Keith’s voice says, low and rumbling in Lance’s ear. It’s more a firm suggestion than a command. Lance adjusts his grip.

A sticky warm breeze, full of wind and saltwater, shifts across Lance’s face. “I fail to see how one can spend all day on the boats and still find enjoyment in fishing for leisure.”

Keith chuckles, “I fail to see how one can live in Newfoundland without the knowledge of how to fish.”

“Not all of us can be as naturally gifted as you are,” Lance bites down on his lip, smirking.

Air, warmed by Keith’s lungs, tickles Lance’s face, “I’m supposed to be teaching you valuable life lessons, Lance.”

Lance puts the weight of the rod in Keith’s hands and spins to face him. He can’t stop the smile that invades his face. “Who needs valuable life lessons when I have you?” Lance reaches up, places a tender hand on Keith’s jaw.

Keith’s face hardens. His lips smooth into a tense thin line, “ _Lance--_ ”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Lance commands. “I know what you’re thinking. It is far too wonderful a day to be thinking such morbid thoughts.”

“I just--”

“You want me to be prepared in case anything happens, yes I know,” Lance sighs, the words familiar on his tongue. It’s an argument they’ve had too many times before. “You really should spend less time worrying about things that will never happen, my love.”

Keith’s cheeks are pinked from the sun. He looks soft and boyish. Nothing like the hardened spirit Lance had met all those years prior. Lance’s other hand toys with the collar of Keith’s undershirt. He leans into Keith, tightens his fingers around the shirt, and presses their lips together.

The kiss is chaste and sweet. Something to get their minds off of the previous subject. When Lance pulls away, he rests his forehead against Keith’s.

“That’s better,” Lance whispers, using his thumb to smooth the frown from Keith’s lip.

The (rather expensive) fishing rod clatters to the ground. Lance feels his legs get scooped up from under him and his hands cling to the material covering Keith’s shoulders. “Keith!” Lance giggles more than shrieks. “Put me down!”

Keith maneuvers Lance further over his shoulder. Countless hours spent on the fishing boats have made him strong enough to carry Lance like this. Despite the unwelcomed feeling of helplessness, Lance would be lying if he says it isn’t a little attractive.

“Why would I do that?” Keith asks. Lance can hear the smirk in his voice.  
  
  
  


 

To most people, their home is far from impressive. It is nothing like the regal castle grounds in Scotland, nor the sprawling manors of Upper Canada.

Only a handful of metres from the jagged line of shoreline that separates them from the Atlantic ocean, sits a log cabin. Keith had inherited it when his father passed two winters ago. The senior Kogane had built it with his own hands. It’s quite small. One room--kitchen, dining room, and parlour--on the bottom floor, and one room--bedroom--on the top. The floor is made up of wooden boards that creaked at even the slightest amount of pressure.

Lance stands at the wooden counter, holding a kitchen knife in his hand and chopping bits of vegetables. They’d eat it for dinner, along with smoked salmon Keith had caught earlier that morning and fresh bread from Henry Garrett’s bakery.

Keith lays with his feet up on the couch. A leather-bound book rests perched in his hand. Often Keith will read while Lance prepares dinner, the two of them existing together in peaceful silence. Only the sounds of Lance’s knife work, along with Keith’s gentle page turning, and the slow lapping of waves outside fill the kitchen.

“We’ll need more bread soon,” Lance says almost absently.

Keith hums, turning another page in his book. Anyone else might interpret it as uncaring, but Lance sees it for what it is: a gentle acknowledgement from someone more engrossed in his book than he should be. He can read the furrow in Keith’s brow, the slight turn of his face, perfectly.

They eat dinner quite uneventfully. Lance and Keith softly bicker over plates and salt dishes while practically inhaling their dishes.

Once it’s over, Keith thanks him for dinner. The two of them scrub the dishes together, both of them uselessly pretending not to notice the other splashing soapy water up the other’s arms. Keith is smiling like he thinks he’s not supposed to be amused. Lance wants to kiss the edges of that smile. He wants to put his hands under Keith’s undershirt, graze the skin of Keith’s toned stomach with his fingertips, until that smile is free and careless. Instead, Lance knocks his shoulder with Keith’s and ‘accidentally’ drips water down the side of his shirt.

The sun is just barely starting to set, the sky lit up in a million shades of purple and orange. A handful of tiny white pinprick stars call out from the darker edges of the sky.

“You know what it would be a beautiful night for?” Lance asks looking up at the clouds.

“You better not say what I think you’re going to say.”

Lance turns his head to Keith. The curled ends up his hair sway in the breeze. “The water is _right there_.”

“It’s nearly freezing!”

“We haven’t gone swimming since before last fall,” Lance pleads. He looks into Keith’s beautiful, charming eyes. “It hasn’t even rained today.”

Keith blinks, exhales, and his face softens. He rubs the light stubble across his face before he speaks with a smile, “Curse you, Lance McClain. Curse you and your mystical powers of persuasion.”

“You know you love me.”

Keith’s lips capture the corner of Lance’s mouth.

They half-run half-stumble towards the shore, their laughter catching on the saltwater wind. Lance pulls his undershirt over his head. His chest stings with the cold, but Lance can’t be bothered to care. Textured gravel and rocks press rough against the pads of Lance’s bare feet. Lance tosses his shirt somewhere it might hopefully stay dry on the shore, and he watches Keith do the same. Quickly, they roll up the cuffs of their trousers. Lance enters the water first.

Moments like this--with the evening quickly melting into night, with the steady heartbeat of the ocean--this is what Lance lives for.

A gypsy once told Lance that in a past life he was a creature of the sea. It was back before Lance came to Port Bagby, before he’d met Keith. The gypsy had twisting dark hair and curled fingers speckled with age. He’d paid her an entire dollar to look at his palms and mutter a handful of words Lance couldn’t comprehend.

Keith is more hesitant. He wades into the water slowly, already a good metre behind Lance.

Lance watches Keith move slowly until they’re standing chest to chest. The water is up to their waists. Lance loops his hands around Keith’s shoulders. He can see the shiver Keith suppresses at the drops of water hitting the back of his neck.

“Don’t I just have the best ideas?” Lance says, a soft smile taking over his face.

Instead of answering, Keith lifts his hands to caress the curve of Lance’s hips, “You’re giving me frostbite.”

Keith’s skin smells like saltwater. Lance is certain his does as well. Nearly everything smells like saltwater these days. Gently brushing his nose along Keith’s neck, Lance revels in the way Keith’s hands twitch against his bare skin.

“Lance,” Keith exhales, his voice shaking.

Lance pulls away. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, “Hm?”

Keith opens his mouth to say something. As Lance ducks down into the water and rememerges, splattering water up the front of Keith’s chest, whatever the words could have been turns to a shout of protest.

  
  
  


 

Lance doesn’t dream often. When he does, the images come to him in brief flashes: glimpses of his sister's smile or a twisted-fingered gypsy. Once the morning comes, Lance rarely ever remembers anything further than closing his eyes the night prior. Which makes it all the more strange when Lance closes his eyes for the night, Keith’s measured breathing warm and close, and finds himself somewhere he’s never been before.

The walls are mostly white laced with intricate silver patterns. The floor a darker grey. There aren’t any windows, and Lance appears to be in a hallway. He isn’t the only one there. What appears to be Miss Katherine Holt, the daughter of Doctor Holt, seems to be standing in front of him.

“Lance?” Katherine asks. Her hair is much shorter, only sticking out just past her ears. Katherine tucks a piece of hair behind her glasses, a gesture Lance recognizes from playing darts with her brother Matthew. She looks surprised, maybe concerned, at the sight of Lance.

“I’m dreaming,” Lance feels himself mumble. He must be dreaming.

Katherine nods her head, her face incredibly serious, “Yes, Lance. You are dreaming.”

Lance tries to take a step towards her, but his body won’t move. He’s only met Miss Katherine a handful of times, and yet he’s feeling the instinct to comfort her.

“You’ve gotta wake up soon, Lance,” Katherine says. Her smile is as sad as it is sweet. “We’re all counting on you, dude. Please wake up.”  


 

_“How do I wake up?”_  


 

The words rest heavy on Lance’s tongue as he gasps awake. Bed sheets cling to the sweat on Lance’s skin. A wave of nausea fills his stomach. Lance clutches the sheets hard in his hands. He tries to slow his breathing, tries to slow his heartbeat. Miss Katherine’s words echo in his head.

The room is dark--he mustn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours.

“What’s wrong?” he hears Keith ask. Lance doesn’t answer. He feels Keith’s arm encircle his waist. It steadies Lance, just enough. “Darling?”

The affection sounds clunky and awkward coming out of Keith’s mouth. Lance can’t help himself but chuckle. It comes out as more a shaking breath. It’s too dark to clearly see Keith’s face, but Lance can imagine the frown sitting there.

“I had a weird dream,  is all,” Lance says. “Nothing to worry your pretty little head over.”

Keith pulls Lance closer to his side, “I’ll worry whether you want me to or not.”

Lance turns into Keith and buries his face in Keith’s shoulder. He counts to four, takes a few deep breaths through his mouth.

They don’t speak for the rest of the night, but they stay tangled in each other’s arms. Sleep returns to Lance surprisingly quickly. He doesn’t dream again that night.  
  
  


 

Lance wakes to wedges of sunlight floating in through the open curtains and the sound of breakfast being made downstairs. He pulls himself into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

The dream (nightmare?) from only hours previous lingers in Lance’s thoughts. When Lance blinks, he pictures the expression on Miss Katherine’s face. He hears whispers of her voice in the crashing waves. Lance has never been envious of the nightmares known to plague Keith’s sleep, but he thinks he may now have an understanding of why the man seems to stumble through the rest of the day.

The wooden boards of the staircase creak under Lance’s weight. His hand grazes along the wooden handrail, smoothed down through years of use enough to not worry about splinters.

“Good morning,” Lance says.

Keith’s standing over something sizzling on the stove, his back to Lance and the staircase. He hums in response. “How was the rest of your night?”

“Better,” Lance makes the few strides it takes to get to the dining table. “Thank you for being there.”

When Keith turns to face Lance, his face is unexpectedly surprised. “I--,” he begins. The flush on Keith’s cheekbones sparks a curl of warmth in Lance’s stomach. Lance feels suddenly overcome with a feeling of endearment. “It was no hardship.”

Sending the warmest smile he can, Lance takes a seat at the table. “What time might you be back today?” he asks.

He watches the back of Keith’s shoulders as he shrugs. “Shiro wants me to do some repairs on the Focus today. He says her sails are fraying--or something. It was difficult to hear over the baby’s screaming.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Running a hand through his scruffy hair, Keith sighs. “I’m not sure,” he says, keeping his focus on whatever he’s cooking. “Too late for dinner, most likely.”

“I can wait,” Lance rests his forearms on the table.

Breakfast turns out to be some sort of omelette, with eggs from their modest collection of hens and an assortment of herbs that were obviously just whatever Keith found around the kitchen. It’s tasty enough. Lance appreciates the effort.

They pile the used dishes in a bucket for one of them to wash later.

“I’ll see you later,” Keith says, dipping his head to drop a kiss on Lance’s forehead.

“Okay,” Lance feels the grin take over his face, “ _darling_.”

He watches the flush rise to Keith’s cheeks as Keith tries to tilt his head down, “You’re insufferable.”

“I am _charming_.”

Lance pulls Keith’s face closer by the scruff on the back of his neck. The two of them kiss like that, with Lance tilting up and Keith hunching down. It probably isn’t the best for their backs. Neither of them are keeping track of time, Lance instead choosing to measure time by the number of shaking breaths coming out of Keith’s mouth.

An embarrassingly child-like whine escaped Lance’s throat when Keith pulls away. “Lance, I really do have to leave.”

“Three more minutes?” he lilts hopefully.

Keith presses a quick kiss to the corner of Lance’s mouth. “See you later, _darling_.”

Lance is certain his laughter follows Keith all the way to the docks.  
  
  
  


 

Port Bagby, Newfoundland, as the name suggests, is a coastal town. It has a population of around 60 people, with most of the buildings sprawling outwards from the area around the docks. Most of the buildings around ‘mainstreet’ are small shops or businesses with living quarters on the second floor.

Henry Garrett--a large yet gentle man who insists everyone call him Hunk--’s bakery is one of the few places Lance ever frequents in town. It’s a quiet building, made of wood like everything else in the town.

Lance enters the bakery, scraping the mud off his boots and returning Hunk’s warm smile.

“Lance!” Hunk greets brightly. “It’s good to see you.”

Lance feels himself smiling. He walks up to the bakery’s front counter, rest his elbows and leans against the counter. “Tell me, Henry,” he speaks with an over-the-top fake fancy accent. “What might be the cost of the best bread in Newfoundland?”

“I have the most lovely news,” Hunk says, beaming widely. His limbs jitter with an excited energy.

Lance cocks an eyebrow. “More lovely than the price of bread?” he asks dryly.

“I’m to be married,” Hunk exclaims, and his smile becomes impossibly wider. “Shaylene accepted my proposal just last night. She’s so beautiful, Lance. I love her more than I thought it possible to love someone. I must be the happiest, most lucky man on this earth.”

If it were anyone else, Lance would laugh at the words. From someone different they would sound like dialogue from one of those romance novels meant for young girls. But this is Hunk, and Hunk’s words always carry that air of unabashed sincerity.

“Congratulations,” Lance touches Hunk’s shoulder. A genuine smiles takes over Lance’s face at the sight of his friend’s happiness. “That _is_ the most lovely news.”

“The wedding will be in two months, once her family arrives from Halifax. Naturally, I expect you to be there.”

Lance claps his hands together, “This wonderful, Hunk. I’m so happy for you.”

“I--” Hunk cuts himself off, emotion flushing his cheeks. “Thank you.”

They look at each other for a moment. Lance imagines what Hunk’s life might look like in one year, two years, five years. Despite Lance not knowing the girl well, he reckons Hunk and Shaylene are a good match. They’ll be happy together, Lance knows that much. They’ll treat each other well. The pair will probably move into the apartment above the bakery shortly after the wedding. Possibly start saving money to buy a house closer to Lance’s place.

“Bread is fifteen cents,” Hunk says quickly. “I’m so sorry--I was so excited I forgot.”

Lance begins rifling through his bag for the money. The corner of Lance’s lips lift into a smirk without him telling them to, “It’s fine.”

“How is Keith?” Hunk asks, setting a loaf of bread on the counter. He takes a thin sheet of paper and wraps the bread in it.

“Keith is well. You and your fiancée should join us for dinner sometime.”

Hunk nods, tying the bread with a string. “Takashi and Laura too. It’s been too long since I’ve seen everybody. Not since before the baby was born. How old is she now?”

“Three or four months, I believe. Her name is Emily. She’s likely the cutest child I’ve ever seen,” Lance says. He hands the bundle of coins over to Hunk. “I’ll relay the idea to Keith. Perhaps I can fake a holiday so he feels obligated to say yes.”  
  
  
  


 

Keith is lounging in the living room, a book hanging in front of his face, the picture of relaxation, when Lance returns home. Lance slips off his boots and hangs his jacket on the coathanger. He sets his bag on top of the kitchen table.

When Lance bends down to kiss him, Keith wrinkles his nose at the smell of liquor and tobacco lingering around Lance’s person. “You’ve had a fun day, eh?” he asks.

Lance squishes an obnoxious kiss into the apple of Keith’s cheek, “Not too much fun, my dear. You need not worry.”

Keith smiles like he can’t help himself and playfully shoves at Lance’s shoulder, “ _Insufferable_.”

“And you said you weren’t going to be home for dinner,” Lance says, surveying his eyes across the room. A rather suspicious-looking pile of dishes sits on the far end of the counter. He turns back to Keith, holding what he hopes is steady and authoritative eye contact.

Surprisingly, Keith flushes. He looks down at his hands, tossing the book to his lap. “I’m so sorry,” he glances back up at Lance through dark eyelashes. “I didn’t think.”

“I was merely teasing, my love,” Lance says quickly. He sits next to Keith on the loveseat and draws him close. He holds Keith’s hand in his own. “We will have our entire lives to enjoy dinners together.”

Keith’s hand twitches around Lance’s, “You of all people should know, we can’t be certain of the time we have together.”

“And you of all people should understand the value in treasuring the time when given it.”

Lance cards his fingers through Keith’s hair. It’s getting longer, the locks at the back of his head nearly reaching his shoulders. Their eyes meet. Keith’s gaze feels just as intense as it did the first time. Lance feels the air catch in his throat, he feels his pulse quicken.

One of them kisses the other. It doesn’t matter which--Lance doesn’t think he could tell if he tried. They kiss long enough for them to both be panting against the other’s open mouth. Until Lance knows both of their lips are bright red. If he could, Lance would spend every moment of his life kissing Keith. A groan escapes Lance’s lips. He slips his hand, the one not in Keith’s hair, under the hem of Keith’s shirt. The tight muscles of Keith’s stomach feel solid beneath Lance’s fingers.

Lance gasps when Keith’s lips move from his mouth to the space beneath his ear. He arches further into Keith. The heat from Keith’s mouth spreads quickly through the rest of Lance’s body.

Through the heavy, open-mouthed panting, Lance manages a breathy “ _Keith--dear God_.”

Lance can feel the edges of Keith’s teeth on his skin, shivers from the anticipation of the mark he’ll see there tomorrow.

“Let’s-- _Keith_ \--let’s take this upstairs,” Lance rumbles, his voice the timbre of the waves outside.

They drag each other up the stairs, twisting themselves out of shirts and jackets and belts. They slip out of their trousers and pants with an enthusiasm only before found in teenagers.

Lance and Keith press against each other on the bed. Keith ends up on top, slotting his legs between Lance’s, and bracketing Lance’s face with his arms. They rut against each other, hot skin on hot skin, the air a cacophony of breathy wimpers.

“I want--,” Keith gasps. “I want--”

“What do you want, my love?”

“Just--,” Keith lifts Lance’s hand away and places it on the bed. “You trust me, yeah?”

Lance nods.

Keith moves his body down Lance’s, his calloused hands lingering on Lance’s chest. He looks up, pupils blown, and Lance follows the line of his throat. And then--Keith’s hand encircles Lance wrist--and then--Keith takes Lance into his mouth--and then--Lance’s brain stops working. He’s afraid he may never again be able to form a thought.

Swears and curses spill out of Lance’s mouth. He clutches at the sheets.

Keith’s finger traces a line down the centre of Lance’s backside and--Lance shivers. Keith continues the gentle pressure. It’s not the way they usually do this, but Lance is so incredibly into it.

Pulling away, Keith mumbles, “You alright?”

Lance nods hard enough for his head to make a sound against the pillow, “So, _so_ alright.”

Lance finds release a few minutes later, when the fingernails on the hand around Lance’s wrist tighten--not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind Lance of their presence. He twitches towards and away from Keith’s body at the same time.

Lance returns the favour to Keith, holding him close and whispering in his ear as he strokes him.

The two of them lay back, the edges of their skin just barely touching. Lance feels sated and sweaty, like he could spend the rest of his life in this moment. A light saltwater breeze bites at the moisture.  
  
Keith’s hand reaches out and pats Lance’s upper thigh, “Good job.”  
  
A hysterical laugh bubbles it’s way out of Lance’s throat. “‘Good job’?” he wheezes.

“It’s the best I can do right now.”

“It’s okay, my beautiful,” Lance drags his fingers through the edges of Keith’s curls. He just barely scrapes his fingernails along Keith’s scalp. “Somehow, despite your lack of eloquence, I still find myself capable of loving you.”

Suddenly, Lance finds himself sprawled on the floor. Keith lays on the bed cackling. The ghost-feeling of Keith’s shoving is little comfort against the hard wood.

“Ouch.”

Lance’s stomach growls loud enough for him to be surprised Keith doesn’t tease him for it. It’s enough to bring attention to the burning hunger in his belly. He shuffles around the floor, reaching for and pulling on the fabric of his trousers.

Keith arches an eyebrow, “This warm bed not good enough for you?”

“You forget, not all of us have had the luxury of eating dinner.” He hurries to stand up, leaning over the bed and placing a kiss to the wrinkle in Keith’s forehead.

  
  
  


 

Lance’s next dream is equally, if not more so, odd than the last.

Hunk lays on a thin blanket, eyes fluttering as if he’s half-asleep. It seems to be the same place Lance was before.

“Henry?” Lance calls to him. He tries to move forward, but finds himself once again incapable.

Hunk stirs awake. There are deep circles under his eyes. He looks surprised--far more surprised than Miss Katherine had been. “ _Lance_?” Hunk gasps, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“What is this?” Lance asks.

Standing on shaking legs, Hunk splutters, “Lance--this--what-- _Jesus_ , _Lance_.” He’s dressed in an odd sort of...suit. It’s boldly coloured, black and white and orange.

Lance’s head hurts.

He watches Hunk slowly reach out his hand to touch Lance’s, watches as Hunk’s hand phases right through it. It doesn’t feel like anything. Watching it with his own eyes was the only way to tell anything out of the ordinary was happening.

“This is incredibly strange,” Lance says.

Then, Hunk starts laughing. It’s this ugly, joyless laugh, a noise Lance would have never expected from Hunk. “You have no idea,” he says.

Lance watches Hunk straighten up. “We--” his voice breaks. He looks so exhausted. “We’re trying. We’re all doing our best here and--we need you to try harder, Lance. _Please_.”

Lance can’t find the words to say. There must be something to say to make this better. His throat feels too dry. Hunk continues babbling. He’s pacing now, his voice catching every so often on half-sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Lance says, because it seems like the right thing to do.

“It’s not your fault. I just--we’re all so tired here, Lance.” Hunk runs a hand through his hair and sighs, “Even Keith is missing you.”

“Keith?”

Lance’s headache is getting more and more painful. It feels like a pickaxe on his skull. Nothing Hunk is saying makes any sense. Lance wonders why his mind would ever come up with such a thing.  
  
  
  


 

When Lance awakens, the bed is empty. Lance stands, trying to shake the cold sweat from his skin.

He follows his instincts down the staircase and out the front door. The air outside is chilly, but not cold enough to send Lance back inside for a jacket. A full moon illuminates Port Bagby like a silver candle. Lance’s is definitely getting back at Keith for making him walk out here barefoot.

Placing a hand on the outside walls the steady himself, Lance waddles around the side of the house, careful to avoid sharp rocks or flowers. When the turns the corner to the back of the cabin, Keith is sitting in an old rocking chair, candle in hand, looking out at the ocean.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Keith says, somehow sensing Lance’s presence.

Lance sits cross-legged on the ground beside Keith, probably getting dirt all over his nightclothes. “The same could be said about you. Care to tell me what you’re thinking about?”

Keith stays silent for a long moment.

The wind swirls and dances around them, causing the candlelight to jump across their faces. A wolf howls somewhere in the distance.

“Just the past,” he says eventually, slowly. “The future.”

“How ominous,” Lance jokes. He tilts the corner of his smile towards Keith. A sudden shiver overcomes Lance’s body. Pressing a hand to Keith’s shoulder, Lance says, “Come back to bed, sweetheart. Even if we are to only lay beside each other in companionable silence, I’d much prefer it to out here.”

Keith nods, his mind still somewhere between the dark ocean and the light of the moon. He says almost absently, “The MacKinnons’ boat went down this morning.”

The cold air turns much colder.

“Shiro and I saw saw it floating out there. We managed to pull Frank from the wreck and George swam himself back to shore but… We spent the day looking for Jem--he’s the short little one with the red hair. Nobody knows what actually happened. Frank said one second they were fine, the next they were taking on water.”

Lance doesn’t say anything--can’t find the words within himself.

Keith takes a shaky breath, “I reckon they’ll hold a service next sunday.”

“That’s awful,” Lance moves his hand to Keith’s.

The candle nearly burns out for how long they sit in silence. Lance can’t find it within himself to break this little bubble, to bring Keith out of the moment, despite how badly he wants to.

“You should invite Takashi and Laura over for dinner tomorrow,” Lance says, hoping to shift Keith’s thoughts. “They could bring their newborn. I’ll invite Hunk and his fiancee also--have I told you of their engagement yet?”

“Lance, I really don’t think--”

Lance looks Keith in the eyes, “I can’t recall the last occasion you spent time with Shiro outside of work and, if I’m correct, neither can you. It’ll be good. I’ll attempt to make dinner and fail miserably, and then Hunk will arrive with the real dinner.”

Keith runs his hand through his hair. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Congratulations,” Lance murmurs. He clasps his hand tighter around Keith’s. Keith doesn’t smile or react in any obvious way, but Lance can feel the movement of his muscles relaxing. It’s progress. “You’re now a perfectly adequate member of society.”

“I’m glad. I could never go on knowing I wasn’t ‘perfectly adequate’.”

Lance lays a kiss on Keith’s closest cheekbone. “Shall I invite the Holts as well?”

Keith scrunches his nose. “The Holts? Why? Are you ill?”

“No, I only--” Lance stops himself. He isn’t sure why he’d suggested to invite them. It had felt...natural? Yes, it felt like the natural order of things to invite the Holts along with Henry and the Shirogane’s. “I don’t know what I was saying. Five is already more than enough guests.”

Smiling, Keith smooths a wrinkle from Lance’s shirtsleeve. “I’m tired. Let’s go back to bed, Lance.”

Later, once Lance and Keith are settled under a quilt, Keith draws Lance close to him. He encircles Lance’s waist. “I love you,” Keith mumbless against Lance’s lips. The pressure is sure and steady.

Lance smooths his palm down Keith’s shoulder blade and shifts closer to him. Closer until there is nearly no space where they aren't connected. Until they are breathing with the same lungs and beating with the same heart.  
  
  
  


 

The next morning, Lance holds Keith a little tighter than usual by the lapels. He kisses with just a little more meaning than a usual day. Both of them are breathless by the end of it and Lance wishes Keith weren’t just on his way out the door.

“Do not forget to invite the Shirogane’s,” Lance mumbles against Keith’s lips, smoothing the front of Keith’s jacket.

Keith makes a noise that could be interpreted as nearly anything.

Eventually Keith makes it out the door. Lance follows moments later, taking little time to slip on his jacket.

He cares for the chickens and Kaltenecker, their lazy-eyed milk cow. Kaltenecker moos, looking Lance up and down. Despite her general appearance, Kaltenecker is a spitefully intelligent cow. In the past year of owning her, she’s escaped her pen a total of six times--not that she’s gotten anywhere significantly far.

When Lance spots the cat, it’s perched on top of a fence post, staring into Lance with omnipotent eyes.

“Hello there,” Lance greets, nodding to the animal.

It’s pelt is a dark grey, well-groomed, and almost blue in the light. Lance holds out his hand for the cat to sniff. She--it seems like a she--peers up at him. She blinks once, slowly.

“And where would you be from, sweetness?” he asks, smoothing his hand over her ears,

She nudges against him in reply.

A stray clap of thunder sounds off in the distance. It fills the air, blowing past Lance and the cat and Kaltenecker with an almost-physical presence.

The cat sniffs the air and Lance continues petting her. Her eyes flick over to his.

All the farm cats in all of Newfoundland will tell you that they don’t care for people. Solitary creatures they are. But it seems like the cat..reads him? Looks into his soul like a person would--like more than a person would. Her gaze feels incredibly powerful and vaguely terrifying and it sends a shiver down Lance’s spine.

“Are you an angel?” Lance asks breathlessly. It’s the only way he can think to justify this feeling.

The cat blinks once, long and slow.

A silly idea is what it is, but Lance carefully lifts the cat by her stomach. He lets her perch atop his shoulders, periodically purring and nudging against his ears. Somehow, she stays there.

She stays there until the sky is dark grey and angry, and the waves are more violent than Lance has ever seen before.  
  
  
  


 

It’s three hours past the time they typically eat dinner, and Keith isn’t home yet.

Lance shouldn’t be concerned. Keith has come home late before; usually to do with the eastern-starboard-something-or-other.

But, the wind from earlier has progressed into a window-rattling storm.

But, after Lance brought the cat inside, she kept pawing at the window, pawing at the door, pawing at the stack of Keith’s boots in the hallway.

But, every time Lance catches the sound of rain outside, his stomach drops into his shoes.

It’s not--it’s nothing different from usual. Keith comes and goes at different times of the day all the time. It’s only this _feeling_. Lance just can’t seem to shake it. He isn’t going to worry, but Lance has never aspired to be the helpless widow sniffling into a handkerchief and counting the moments until beloved returns home.

He waits until twenty minutes past ten before grabbing his coat. It feels rougher, heavier than usual. The dark material weighting his shoulders like it’s anchoring him to the earth. The wind cuts and bites at his skin, leaving drops of near frozen water on Lance’s skin. He pulls the collar of the coat up to his jaw. A heavy atmosphere clings heavy to the air--heavier than the swirling storm clouds. Every step carries the heaviness. Lance’s boots stick to the mud beneath them.

It takes Lance ten minutes to get to the docks. The Shirogane house is directly beside it. Squinting through the curtain of rain, Lance can see echoes of candlelight through the front window. Beyond the Shirogane house though, beyond the rows of fisherman’s boats, is the tell-tale bobbling lantern light of the Lady Focus.

Lance’s feet move along the dock against his will. They clatter along the wooden boards, sending splashes of icy water up Lance’s calves. He runs until there is no more dock to run along, until his toes hang over the edge of the ocean.

“ _Keith_!” Lance shouts, doubtful anything can be heard over the howling wind and crashing waves.

Lance’s mind can’t catch up to his body--his limbs move of their own accord. He finds himself untethering Shiro’s secondary boat, the Lady Patience. Coarse rope burns Lance’s hands. It’s a stark contrast from the world surrounding him. He’s already breathing heavily.

The entire world blurs around Lance. He barely knows what he’s doing, where to put his hands, how to drive the vessel forwards. All of knowledge he has draws on faded memories of Keith’s half-hearted tours. He is far too aware of his lack of plan. He’s behaving too impulsively. Some faraway part of himself reminds Lance that he needs to take a moment to properly assess the situation. He’s being too similar to Keith.

Cold spirals around Lance, the omnidimensional noise of the storm presses into him. Waves thrash up the front of the boat.

The tiny light moves closer and closer.

There is nothing else in the universe. Nothing aside from the swaying light and the pulse in Lance’s ears.

Then, the world stops.

The Lady Patience freezes with a jolt that sends Lance stumbling. He steadies himself on the mast. Raindrops hover in mid-air. The wind, though, the wind continues. It _roars_. Lance can’t hear anything over the noise--he can’t hear his own thoughts.

Lance takes a breath. He closes his eyes to steady himself, focuses on the feel of the jacket on his shoulders. When he opens them again, the cat is floating eye-level less than a metre from Lance’s face.

“What is this?” he asks.

Lance has been driven to insanity. Or he’s been cursed. Or he’s dreaming--yes! That’s it! Lance is dreaming. It’s another strange, inexplicable dream.

Keith’s face flashes in Lance’s mind. It’s--Keith is drowning. Gasping for air. Struggling against the waves of the Atlantic. Lance needs to save him. He needs to get to Keith and Shiro and he can go home and everything can be fine.

_Do not listen, Lance._

A voice appears in Lance’s mind, piercing through the noise of the storm. The vision of Keith fades into darkness, bringing Lance once again face-to-face with the cat.

_This is not who you are. Reach through the cloud in your mind._

More images appear: a sky of stars Lance doesn’t know, fighting alongside unrecognizable versions of his friends, and...flying?

“I don’t know what any of this means.”

He needs to get to Keith. He needs--

_Concentrate, Lance._

Lance can’t think. The roaring increases. It gets louder and louder, building until Lance is certain his head will burst. It takes more effort than it should just to breathe. The air _hurts_ moving through his lungs.

Lance needs--he needs--

Keith smirking, looking back at Lance over his shoulder, bayard in hand. Keith looking down at him with blown, sweaty eyes. Keith flinging himself in front of unimaginable monsters to save the life of a stranger.

Lance needs--

  
  
  


 

**_Castle of Lions, 2204_ **

  
  


When Lance opens his eyes, he’s nearly blinded by light. He feels like he’s been sweating. A hammer punches at his temples. The world hums around him.

“Am I dead?” Lance asks no one in particular.

The white light lifts away light a curtain. Lance stumbles out of the box he was in, a hem of fog gathering at his feet. He doesn’t recognize the space around him. Everything is shining with a cleanliness Lance has never witnessed before.

“Lance?” Keith’s voice gasps. Keith springs up from where he was sitting on the floor. “Thank God,” he exhales.

They embrace and it feels like the first time in months. Lance rests his face in the curve of Keith’s neck, breathing him in. It’s something good. Something better than Lance would have assumed. Despite the confusion and the headache and the general feeling of wrongness, Lance feels like himself.

“I thought you were dead.” Lance whispers into Keith’s jaw. “I love you more than words have to power to say.”

He feels the moment Keith’s entire body goes stiff. “What do you mean, buddy?”

Lance extracts his arms from Keith’s form. He notices now the lack of wrinkles on Keith’s forehead. There’s a pressure in Keith’s shoulder blades Lance has never witnessed before.

Feeling his eyes widen, Lance asks, “Where am I?”

“You’re on the castle,” Keith says slowly. “You’ve been in the healing pod for three weeks.”

“You aren't making any sense, my love.”

“What the hell? _You’re_ not making any sense.”

“Calm down, Keith. He’s disoriented. Who knows what that thing put him through.” A woman’s voice appears somewhere to the left--Lance can’t be bothered to look away from Keith. The voice is familiar. It only takes a moment for Lance to place it to Laura.

“That's not Lance,” Keith accuses.

Lance finds his hands mirroring Keith’s shaking ones. “I don’t know what’s happening. You need to tell me what’s happening.”

Laura’s hands land on Lance’s shoulders. She turns him towards her, looks into his eyes. Her face and hair are different than he remembers. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Laura,” Lance feels himself saying. “Takashi’s wife. You’re coming over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“That’s right,” she says smiling. It’s warm. Against his better judgement, Lance finds himself trusting her. “Do you know what happened, Lance?”

Lance shakes his head. He tries to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“You were in an accident, but everything is okay. I’m going to take you to lay down for a bit, is that alright?”

Lance nods.

Laura moves her hand from Lance’s shoulder to the small of his back. She gently guides him across the impossibly wide room. Their steps echo off the walls.

In the middle of the room, mouth gaping open like a salmon, Keith just stands there. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn't move. If Lance were braver, he would smooth that look off of Keith's face. But Lance doesn’t know anything about Keith, not right now, so he keeps the instinct burning in his stomach.

  
  
  


He doesn’t know how long he was asleep, but when Lance wakes up, his head hurts more than before.

It takes Lance a while to realize anything had ever happened. He showers in the washroom connected to his room and belts out some Bon Jovi (hopefully loud enough for every person on the ship to hear him). In hindsight, Lance is thankful for the time he has before being startled by his face in the mirror. He only wishes it would’ve lasted longer.

The past weeks come back to him in a rush: the battle with the Navark, throwing himself in it’s way to protect Keith, getting near burned alive by the Navark’s venom, and...waking up. He remembers stumbling out of the healing pod yesterday. He remembers everything he said to Keith. He remembers the feeling of Keith going tense beneath him.

Lance can’t remember anything between fighting the Navark and yesterday. Small mercies, he guess.

The hallway outside Lance’s room is silent. A clock on the wall tells Lance it’s somewhere around breakfast time. Everyone must be in the kitchen.

He walks to the kitchen with heavy footsteps.

The moments Lance spends waiting for the door to slide open are some of the longest of his life.  Everyone turns to openly stare at Lance: Hunk, Pidge, Matt, Keith, Coran, Allura, even Shiro.

His cheeks flame when he makes eye contact with Keith.

“Lance,” Allura greets gently. It’s warm yet distanced. A question only someone close to her would know. She’s asking if he’s himself yet.

“It’s me, y’all.”

All tension immediately evaporates from the room. Relieved laughter and smiles are spread contagiously. “We’ve missed you, dude,” flies through the air with, “We’re glad you’re back,” and “It’s been too long without your hideous skincare routines”.

Once the cycle of welcome-back-hugs comes to an end, Lance asks, “What happened to me though? The last thing I remember is getting Navark goo all over me. After that it’s just…” He makes a gesture the others will hopefully interpret as ‘nothing’.

After a long silence, Pidge speaks up. “We obviously didn’t know as much about the Navark as we should’ve. Matt and I looked through every database we could and even then, a lot of it was folklore or legends. What we were able to interpret is that the Navark feeds on the life energy of whoever touches its venom. When the venom absorbed into your bloodstream, it sent you into a coma.”

“This is where all the information gets a little muddled,” she continues. “The most detailed legend said that in order for it to feed on you, it needs you to want to be there. It presents you with a new life with everything it thinks you wants. It gives you no other option than to want to stay.”

Lance scratches the back of his neck, “How come I got out then? If it wanted me so badly.”

“You’re stronger than you think you are, Lance,” Allura says.

Matt starts speaking this time, his face wearing an apologetic smile, “We believe it had something to do with your connection to Blue. It’s difficult to say how much of it was the lion and how much of it was your own will, but without Blue, you’d probably still be in the healing pod.”

Lance feels like he’s going to be sick. When was the last time he ate something?

“I need a moment,” he chokes out. Someone helps him shuffle into a chair. Someone else places a glass of water in his hand.

Allura crouches down to meet his eye level, “Are you sure you don’t remember anything, Lance?”

He doesn’t answer until he feels he can breathe easy again. He doesn’t think anyone blames him. “I remember being able to remember. But, it’s like there’s this empty space in my mind.”

Lance’s headache returns with a vengeance. He can feel unspoken words hanging in the air, everyone having something to say, but no idea how to say it.

“I’m tired,” Lance mumbles, once everything has gotten far too unbearable. “I think I’m gonna sit the rest of the day out.”  
  
  
  


 

There’s only so much time a person can spend laying on their bedsheets, staring up at the ceiling, and rethinking all of their life choices. Sleep won’t come to Lance. Turns out that after three weeks of straight unconsciousness, Lance’s body is a tad bit tired of it.

Heh. _Tired_.

Lance has gone insane enough from the self-imposed solitary to openly welcome the head-pain-inducing knock at the door. He’s a bit less open when it’s Keith’s face he sees on the other side of his door.

“Can I come in?” Keith asks, his voice far too even.

“I guess,” Lance says, completely failing any attempt at casual.

They sit far enough apart on the bedspread for them to pretend it isn’t awkward. The air hangs heavy between them. Keith fiddles with a loose string on his shirt.

Lance clears his throat, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“Did you mean it?” Keith asks immediately, too quickly.

“What?”

Keith sighs and runs his hand through his hair. His dark, shining hair, sparkling with every ray of fluorescent light. “Did you mean what you said?”

“I’m not--I don’t know,” Lance stutters. “I was a different person.”

“Bullshit. You said it yourself, you remember everything that happened yesterday. You remember knowing who you were,” Keith spits.

“Yes,” Lance says. It’s something soft and quiet. He didn’t mean to sound this vulnerable. “I meant it.”

There are more things Lance wants to say, important things, but Lance can’t find the strength to reach out and grab the words. They hang lifelessly in front of him. Keith glares a hole into the wall above Lance’s head.

“Okay.”

Keith stands. And that’s it. That’s the end of their conversation. Keith is going to walk out of the door and they’ll never speak about it again. They’ll go back to being buddies--rivals. Business as usual. Except--

“Did you want me to mean it?”

Keith turns around very slowly. His eyes flick from Lance’s face, to the door, and back to Lance.

“Real ne, not Navark me,” he elaborates. Lance bites his lip with the urge to take the words back.

Keith walks back to the bed just as slow as he’d turned around. As much as Lance wants to, it’s impossible to see inside Keith’s mind. He needs to know what Keith’s thinking as he takes a calloused hand up the side of Lance’s cheek.

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith whispers. It sounds...sad, almost. The air splays across Lance’s face. Keith’s other hand mirrors the opposite one.

It takes about three seconds for their lips to find each other.

Keith’s are warm and chapped and Lance didn’t know how much he needed this until now. Lance never wants to let go of them. He wants to drown in this moment.

“I love you,” Lance says with uneven breath. “ _Me_ , Lance McClain, first best paladin of Voltron, loves _you_ , Keith Kogane, second best paladin of Voltron.”

The laugh bubbling from Keith’s chest is pure sunshine.


End file.
